Word of the Day: Rancur

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rancur (n.): bitterness or ill will; hatred; malice

Nightlife is better with her. I have to admit. For one, I feel less of a creep when I people watch. It’s such a healthy hobby. It lets me know I’m actually the one who is still sane. A couple walks by with interlocked hands so tight, you would think the woman was delivering a baby or something. I’m talking about white-knuckle grip, tight. I mean why are they holding hands anyway? Hands are such troublesome things. I’ve decided that chronic hand holding is actually a disease. Mental of course. Neglect is like bacteria implanted by host’s parent(s) and developed over time until the host has full blown case of dependency syndrome.

The hands says a lot about a person. That’s why I take care of mine. I’m not taking care of them when they are being suffocated by some chick. In the case of hand holding, they become all sweaty, and clammy, and shit. I can’t be having that.

I look across the table.

Daniella knows not to try to hold my hand. She holds other things of mine. Things the public and other women can only dream of seeing. She looks up from her churro and smiles. Gorgeous thing she is. Her eyes are some shade of olive I’ve never seen before. The dress she is wearing says, “Fuck me now.” Damn cleavage is one of the most alluring I’ve seen in my life too. I pause.

Is it bad that I don’t feel guilty knowing she is just another one on my list? Just another body I’m going to smash. Again.

Another one of my victims.

I take a sip of my water. Not yet Neale. Not yet.

What I like about Daniella is that she is a bad girl. Or bad woman. Whatever the hell you wanna call them. Who knows what the hell women want to be called nowadays? Damn hypocrites.

The waiter stops at our table.

“Would you like anything else?” he asks.

“Check,” I say. Daniella purses her lips perfectly together like the drop dead, gorgeous siren she is, her eyelashes so long, they could probably touch her nose when she closes them. But the girl hardly ever blinks.

“Don’t you want dessert?” Daniella says to me. The waiter looks at me expectantly too, brows plunging into his hairline. This girl doesn’t know how to turn her freak off. I scratch my head.

“I left my sweet tooth back at the hotel baby,” I say light-heartedly.

“Room service then?”

Holy fuck. My blood starts moving a little bit faster.

The waiter clears his throat and walks away. Smart man.

Don’t hate the player. Hate the game.

I make a mental note to never be so cliché again.

“Only if it’s free,” I say.

“You’re so cheap,” she says.

“Don’t forget shallow,” I say raising a finger. She frowns.

“What are you trying to say?” Ah hell. She found me out.

“I’m not trying to say anything.” I search her eyes. I can already see she is looking too deep into what I just said. I’d be doing myself a disservice if I don’t put her in her place. So I tell her the truth. “I’m saying you were easy.”

There. I said it.

What am I saying? I’m really just that good. She wouldn’t have worn that ridiculous outfit if I hadn’t told her to wear it. I simply wanted to see what all I could make her do.

“Neale, you’re an ass. Did you know that?” I smile.

Is that what you told yourself last night when I was giving it to you?” There is real curiosity in my voice. As if I really didn’t know or something. Ha. Broads.

That’s when rancor filled her eyes.

“Neale, you’re really such a loser.” That’s right baby. Say whatever makes you feel better. “I don’t even know why I care.” You don’t. “Your sex was mediocre at best.”

“Now wait a minute!” That’s the last thing you say to my brand of man. The upper echelon.

“Take it back.” I’m pointing my finger at her and there is a bad taste in my mouth. As if her very words danced on my tongue. How dare she talks about my sex game in such layman terms.

Suddenly, the waiter is back and gives me the check.

“I hope you enjoyed your time with us,” he says and walks off.

I glance at the bill and look back at her.

“Don’t be such a hateful bitch all the time. Learn to appreciate good dick when you get it.” I look at the bill again. Any number seems like too much to be spending on her now. I should’ve never spent money on this bitch. I pay for the food and leave a decent tip.

“It’s time to get out of here before I do or say something I’m going to regret.” By the way I said it, she knows I mean business. I’m letting the temper get the best of me. Chillllll Neale.

A silent, mental woosah.

The ride back to the hotel was a little awkward. She gave me head the whole way back and told me I was the dumbest piece of shit she’d ever met. Another successful night in the world of dating I’d say.

Note to self: Never give a one night stand roll over minutes.

Word of the Day: Overt

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overt (adj.)- plainly or readily apparent; not secret or hidden

Angie sat on the stairs with her hands in her lap. She gave me a searching look. As if reading the essence of who I am. I was never the one to cry wolf. I was hungry like the wolf. My ambition she was tired of. It was written all over her face.

That beautiful face.

“You didnt have to embarrass him like that.” I grin. Not because I’m an asshole. More because I’m genuinely an asshole. I can’t fuckin’ help it.

“I deserve you,” I say. “Not him.”

“I’m not a prize to be won,” Angie says. I understand what she says but I hear it better. Her voice says one thing but communicates something different.

She is…happy. Glad. Content to be rid of him Content to be with me.

She stands.

“You ready to jump roofs.”

“Yep.”Since we started parkour training a week ago, I must say my muscles have been feeling somewhat sore. Her boyfriend challenged me to a race last night and lost miserably. I mean dont get me wrong, I’m still in great shape. It’s just that the landing part of parkour can’t even compare to the thrill of being in flight.

We head to the roof. She opens the door and immediately a rush of cold air breathes it’s way into the corridor. The breeze feels good on my hot face.

“You dont have to try win every time we race you know,” she says. “That’s not the way to a girl’s heart.”

“I thought that was mine already,” I say. “What else must I do?”

Angie walks over towards the edge of the building and looks down. The mind of the city is loud in my ears. People. Cars. Dogs. Cats. And the gravel underneath our feet.

Angie turns around after looking at whatever the hell she was looking at and begins to walk towards me with long, elegant strides.

“What else must you do?” She stops right in front of me and cups her hands on my chin and jawline. Her touch is welcomed.

“Make the jump for me,” Angie says. “Not for you.”

“I thought that’s what I did,” I say.

“We both know your pride won my attention. Now I want you to win my heart.” I gulp. I’m not ready. A grin stretches across her face.

I begin to stretch to prepare for one of many jumps I know I will make. This one feels different somehow. It’s not overt either. She can tell I’m feeling a little nervous about the whole situation. Regardless, I take to a sprint and leap with all of the strength I can muster. I feel my legs kick as if I’m propelling myself forward. The other side approaches quickly and before I know it, I land on the building and allow myself to roll forward to take away the force from the jump. I stand up and look back. Angie is still watching me.

“What you waiting for? Come on,” I yell. “Make the jump for me.”

Word of the Day: Heuristic

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heuristic (adj.)- encouraging a person to learn, discover, understand, or solve problems on his or her own by experimenting, evaluating, possible answers or solutions, or by trial and error

Becoming a man has been one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. So as I count up the stacks of money splayed out on the glass table in the living room before me with the hockey game on the television as background noise, I’m not embarrassed to admit my heuristic way of life may have been sloppy and reckless, but it works. It’s also nothing short of amazing. I mean I have Khloe sitting next to me looking like an angel in some black, boy shorts and topless. She is doing a number on her 9mm. Practicing putting it together and taking it apart as fast as possible.

“Must you do that shit over and over again? I’m counting money here,” I say. She grabs a handful of bullets and shakes them like dice.

“I’m gonna hit the jackpot tonight baby. Watch and wait. You got me all inspired and shit with all of this money. Looking like a damn ATM in here,” she says. I crook a grin. I reach a hand and grab a chip and dip it into the big bowl of dip on the table.

Crunch.

“Why hockey? Turn the basketball game on. I don’t want to hear this shit.” Knowing I wasn’t going to want to hear the NBA commentators either, I turn the stereo on and “Thank U, Next” by Ariana Grande is playing on the radio. Oh great.

“I love this song,” Khloe says. I sigh.

“I know.” She picks up the remote and turns the basketball game on. The Lakers are playing against the Clippers. Classic LA showdown.

“I don’t like the Lakers,” Khloe says.

“So.”

“So you should be like me and pick the Clippers,” she says.

“Don’t be such a devil. You’d be the type to be an Angels fan aren’t you?”

“I love angels,” Khloe says. I finish counting another ten thousand and place it over on the right side of the table with the rest of the counted money. Should be 20k more to go.

“Baseball ain’t my thing. I just said it to see if you were one of those dumb ass women who loves the sport that’s barely a sport at all.”

“How dare you talk about baseball like that. It’s hard to hit that tiny ball coming at you that fast.”

“Oh goody. Learn one thing and I can play just fine. When you’re not hitting the ball, you’re standing around probably hoping the ball doesn’t come to you. That’s real difficult,” I say sarcastically.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” Khloe says with a click. She had put a bullet in the chamber. I sit back in astonishment. Would she really shoot me? She stands up rather quickly.

“Take it back! I’m done putting up with your shit. That’s why I’m never marrying you. Take back this piece of shit diamond. I don’t want it anymore,” she says and throws the ring I gave her at my face. She misses barely.

“You ungrateful bitch. Get the–”

The door to the living room flies open and another gun comes from its mouth. It wastes no time. A shot rings out and Khloe falls to the ground.

“Holy shit! What the fuck was that Yovanna?!” A dark, long-haired beauty was standing there with the gun pointed at the pitiful thing bleeding on the floor.

“That bitch was threatening your life Dima. She had to be put down.” I look at Yovanna with wide eyes. More amazed at what she did to help me than the fact somebody was shot in front of my very eyes.

“Call the ambulance. And Yovanna…thank you.”

I look at her body spilling blood on the ground. She is already gone.

 

 

Word of the Day: Aesthetic

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aesthetic (adj.)- concerned with beauty or the appreciation of beauty.

I need to go out. It feels good to finally relax and what not. I mean truly, it does, but this room is too cramped. I rise from my chair and open the sliding door to go outside to enjoy the ocean.

Then I see her.

She is standing beneath the outside shower on our wooden balcony overlooking the ocean, her head tilted back and the water caressing her body from head to toe. My mouth drops. I think I might be jealous of the water on her tanned skin.

My heart picks up and blood and heat rushes to my groin in waves. Her aesthetic curves swing around her black thong and elegantly pushes her black top out in front of her so that I could see the fullness of her breast. Her hands reach back and run through her hair gloriously. Like a goddess.

Long fingers. Productive fingers she has. They run down her arms, over her chest, and down her legs as she bends over in front of me. I breathe again before I forget to.

I take a step onto the wood. It’s warm underneath my feet but I barely notice.

I’m in need her.

And I want her. That’s what matters.

I stride two more times and it’s enough for me to be on her back, pulling her back up towards me by her hair so that she is standing straight again and pushing my sex against the small of her back and down to her round butt. Fuck that feels good. I succumb to the feeling as she gasps and looks back at me. I look down at the tiny droplets on her neck and they run from me down to her cleavage as if to hide from my scrutiny of her.

Her neck. It’s so vulnerable there, all stretched out underneath my stare. I bend down slowly and press my nose against it and then smell it, starting from its base on up to her ear. Her scent pleases me.

“Your body is like the earth,” I whisper. She puckers her lips slightly. Blink, and I would’ve missed it. I grin. I must say I do like having her all to myself in my hands like this.

“Dont forget who made it so,” she responds. “I work hard for this.” A dark chuckle escapes my lips before I can stop it. She fits so well in my world.

One of my favorites.

“You make it worth it,” I say. “Tell me what else I need to know.” I exhale into her ear. And she breathes ragged against my inhale.

Breathe. Breathe.

“You think you ready for that?” she asks. She shifts her eyes back towards our magnetic connection and then back towards my eyes. They are brown and inquisitively moving back and forth ever so slightly underneath long, black eyelashes. Her mouth and nose are open, allowing her breath to feed her heart of which I’m sure is pumping furiously inside of her chest.

Pumping for me.

Before she can do anything else, I grab her by the throat with my other hand and pull her closer to me, her back on my chest. Of which is breathing heavily now.

“Follow me.”

And I push the back of her neck forward where she catches herself on the rail with her hands. I strip her of her thong in one decisive pull and fill her with my everything in the presence of Mother Nature.

Word of the Day: Posh

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Posh (adj.) elegant or stylishly luxurious; in an upper-class way

I turn into the Hobbies and Crafts aisle in Barnes and Noble and see what looks to be the answer to my prayers. A Spanish goddess dressed in a black and gold long sleeve V-neck romper with posh earrings and a necklace that disappears into her cleavage is rummaging through a row of books, her long black hair cascading from her shoulders in subtle curls. My breath slackens and I have to tighten my glutes just to keep my knees from melting. It’s a collective effort because my blood has gone hot, my heart pumping it through my veins so furiously that you would think stopping would be the only thing it wanted do. Yet, I manage.

Predator to prey, I center my focus, trying to pay attention more to the spines of the books she is looking at than the lustrous curve at the bottom of her spine. I fail. I wonder if a man bought that Chanel purse on her arm… No matter. She is here now. Alone. I make my way towards her.

“They told me you would be worth the wait.” She looks over at me but doesn’t straighten her back. She can stay in that position if she wants.

“And who are they?” she asks.

“The seconds it took for me to realize today is my lucky day. Barely any.” I grin. Not the kind a mother would be proud of either. No need to show my pearly whites yet.

“Is that right? Well that means you didn’t wait very long.” She’s a smart ass. Of course she is. She reads.

“That’s what you’re supposed to do when you see something you want,” I say. Ahhhh, now she straightens her back. Seems like I’ve finally gotten her attention. She is tall, even without her black suede boots and her honey-brown eyes assess me further, matching the words to the face, the black v-neck and jeans, the posture. Looking to see if everything adds up. I will myself to still, my breath coming and going silently like a cool breeze on a lonely beach with black sands.

“Didn’t your mother tell you you can’t always have what you want?” she says, a coy smile flattening her lips. I find a way to stand straighter.

“While mothers do say such things, they also say once you find a good woman to never let her go.” Her brows arched then, her mouth making a small “o.” My mind begins to revel in debaucheries.

“What makes you think I’m good?” Her hands find her hips and her eyes narrow. What they’re looking for, I’m not quite sure. You’re in the Hobbies and Crafts section for goodness sake. What else am I supposed to think?

“A woman in a bookstore is a fortune money can’t buy.” I just hit a nerve. It’s written all over her body. And her vibe. She is mine.

“And who said that?” she says with a smile that stirs my pride and joy. I show my teeth, my smile crooked as lightning.

“Me,” I say.